Mortal Heart

Ismae crosses to the fireplace, takes up the poker leaning against the wall, and stirs the embers to life. “I trust him,” she says. “It is that simple.”



Sybella barks out a laugh, but it is not as sharp as it once would have been. “Trust is never simple.”



“Do you trust Beast?”



Sybella pauses in her undressing. “With my life,” she says.



Ismae had warned me, but seeing Sybella’s face soften with love as she speaks of Beast drives home the force of her feelings for him in a visceral way.



Ismae glances at me in sorrow and then looks down. “I am sorry, but like Sybella, I cannot in good conscience serve the convent any longer. Not after what the abbess has put her through, and not after what you have told me. I will continue to serve Mortain all the rest of my days, but I am not beholden to the convent, only to my god and myself.”



“As His mercy,” Sybella murmurs.



Ismae’s head snaps up. “What did you say?”



Sybella looks over to meet her gaze. “You will serve as His mercy, and I His justice. Those are the roles He has chosen for us.”



“How do you know this?”



Sybella shrugs. “I too came face to face with our Father, and it was exactly as you said. He loves us with a love beyond our imagining, a love of such acceptance and grace that nothing we do—not even turning away from Him—can destroy it.”



The world tilts dizzily as I am assailed by an entire host of conflicting emotions. Joy, that Sybella has clearly found such peace and happiness. Relief, that yet another one of His handmaidens has seen Him, thus removing the possible significance of my own brief sighting years ago. But I am also filled with a nearly unbearable sense of loss. My seeing Him is no longer a sign of any uniqueness on my part. Not only that, but my two friends have been given roles as His instruments here on earth, whereas I have yet to receive a single order from Him.



The knock at the door pulls me from my self-pity, and a bevy of maidservants enter, carrying a tub and kettles full of steaming water. As they bustle about their duties, I turn my mind to the puzzle of the convent. It is a relief to see that Ismae and Sybella are plagued by the same doubts and concerns that I have, but they are willing to walk away from it. I do not see how I can abandon Florette and Lisabet and Aveline and Loisse to the abbess’s machinations. Besides, Ismae and Sybella each have something—someone—to walk to.



A sudden pang of loss twists sharply in my side, and an image of Balthazaar’s dark, brooding eyes fills my mind. I should not miss him so. Not only is he likely hunting me, but his long penance hints at crimes too terrible to speak of. He is a creature of the Underworld, trapped on his path to redemption for who knows how long. There is no future for us, and even the present puts me in jeopardy. And yet I do miss him. He fits so comfortably into the contours of my own silences and doubts.



When the tub is finally full, Ismae dismisses the maids and the room is once again silent. She turns to Sybella. “Enough of such small talk. I want to know how your mission went.”



A cloud passes over Sybella’s face, then she slips her arms out of her gown and lets it fall to the floor. She pulls her shift over her head then walks to the tub. I marvel at how easily she moves in her nakedness; she always has.



“Tell us,” Ismae says once she has settled in the water.



Sybella’s eyes grow bleak and she busies herself with the soap and sponge. “It is done,” she says. “Count d’Albret is as good as dead—would be dead, but Mortain Himself refused to accept him into the Underworld, a promise He made to my mother and others whom d’Albret has killed. D’Albret’s black soul has been sundered from his body, which will wither and rot like a corpse for Mortain Himself only knows how long. So the duchess is safe from him.”



“And you?”



I do not understand the gentleness in Ismae’s voice, for Sybella has never been squeamish and I cannot imagine why she would be racked with regret. But Sybella’s smile looks so fragile that I fear she might shatter.



“I will be fine. I got to my sisters in time, so they are safe. But Pierre is still alive and will no doubt take up the d’Albret mantle.”



Ismae frowns in puzzlement. “I thought Julian was the next eldest?”



“He was, but he too is dead.” For a moment, she looks like the old Sybella, brittle and damaged, but then her face settles into a determined look. “However, the d’Albret plans will not stop with their death. They have been negotiating with the French camped but a few leagues from Nantes for some time. I do not know the full extent of their plans, but if they are allying themselves with the French in any way, it cannot be good for the duchess.”



Ismae purses her lips in thought while Sybella dunks her head under the water to rinse the soap from her hair. “Could they simply have been playing both sides against the middle, or perhaps using false promises to hold the French at bay?”



“Anything is possible, but we should prepare for the worst just the same. Now, enough talk of my grim duty. I want to hear of Annith’s adventures and how she comes to be in Rennes in spite of the abbess’s wishes.” She rises up out of the water, reaches for the linen towel, and begins to dry herself off.



And so I find myself telling my story for Sybella while she dresses. By the time I am done, she is smiling at me with pride, as if she herself had been responsible for my daring. Which—I realize with a jolt of understanding—she partially is. In giving me love, Ismae and Sybella have given me strength.



“And what did our fair abbess say when she found you here, under her very nose?”



“She was as furious as you’d expect, but it seemed that there was more than just anger there. I want to say fear, except that emotion is not one I would ever ascribe to her.”



“Nor I.” Ismae gives a firm shake of her head. “But when I told her of my meeting with Mortain, told her that I believe the convent, at least some of the time, misunderstands His wishes, she grew furious with me, and I too thought there was fear lying at the heart of it.”



“What?” I stare at her in alarm. “The convent misunderstands Mortain’s will? Why do you think such a thing?”



Her gaze softens. “After seeing so very much death in this world, death not directed by the convent, I have come to learn that everyone who dies bears His marque, and that the marque alone does not indicate that someone must die at one of our hands. Every man who died on the field in front of Nantes bore a marque, and of a certainty, I was not meant to kill them all.”



Her words strike the very breath from my lungs and all I can do is stare at her as my mind struggles to make sense of this, to find a way to make it fit in with the precepts that I hold so dear. “Maybe that is why the seeress is so important?” I finally suggest. “Because that is the only way to tell which of those marqued are meant to die at the convent’s command?”



“That is what I had hoped as well, but I received orders after you informed me that Sister Vereda had fallen ill, and if those orders did not come from one of her visions, then whose visions did they come from? Yours?”



I shake my head. “It was not mine, for I have not yet Seen a thing. Certainly nothing I would be willing to stake a man’s life upon.”



There is another knock on the door—in truth, there is no end to the comings and goings here at court. Ismae hurries over to open it, then talks quietly to whoever is there.



I turn to where Sybella is drying her hair by the fire. “Why were you so angry when you first saw me?”



She closes her eyes briefly, then opens them. “I’m sorry for that. It wasn’t that I was not happy to see you.” She focuses intently on rubbing the wet strands of her hair with the towel. “The abbess said that if I would not return to d’Albret’s household and feed her information as required, then she would send you in my stead.” She looks up at me then, her entire face glowing with intensity. “I could not risk that. You are too good and pure. I could not have you tainted with the stain of my family. I could not bear that.” It is as near to a declaration of love from Sybella as I have ever heard, and I hold it close, trying not to feel slighted that she doubted I could handle myself in such a situation, a situation I have trained for longer than she.



Although perhaps that is not true. From what Ismae has told me of Sybella’s family, no manner of training could prepare one for their dark and twisted deeds. “Thank you,” I say softly. “For caring enough to return to the lion’s den yourself.”



Uncomfortable as ever with my sincerity, she waves my words aside just as Ismae steps away from the door. “We have been summoned to the duchess’s council chamber,” she says, and for a moment, I once again feel outside the circle of our friendship. I turn away so they will not see my longing and disappointment, but Ismae reaches out and tweaks the sleeve of my gown.



“The duchess asked for you as well. The council wishes to hear not only Sybella’s account of what happened at Nantes but your message from the Arduinnites.” She winks, and I cannot help but smile back. With the duchess’s help, Ismae has outmaneuvered the abbess.



At least for the moment.



Chapter Twenty-Eight



AS SOON AS I STEP into the council chamber, I feel the abbess’s cold gaze upon me. Were the meeting even slightly less formal, I feel certain she would take me aside and reprimand me for my presence here.



I pretend she does not exist. It is a trick Sybella used in the past to drive the abbess nearly mad with fury, and I hope to use it to similar effect.



As Sybella tells the Privy Council what she told Ismae and me of what transpired in Nantes, I study the councilors and try to get a sense of their characters.



Across from Lord Duval sits a barrel of a man who looks as stalwart as a thickly rooted tree. He is dressed in soldier’s garb and I guess him to be Dunois, captain of the duchess’s armies. Next to him is a tall, slender man with gray hair at his temples. His eyes are kind, his smile sad, and a chain of office glints around his neck that marks him as the duchess’s new chancellor, Lord Montauban, and captain of Rennes, the city that has given her such needed refuge.



Across from him sits a bishop in scarlet robes with fat jeweled rings upon his fingers. I am somewhat startled to see Father Effram sitting beside him. He wears no trappings of high-church office, and I cannot help but wonder what his role is here. Next to him is a man whose sharp features put me in mind of the ospreys who hunt off the rocky shores near the convent, but I can glean no hint of his identity from his appearance.



More than once, my gaze is drawn to the Beast of Waroch. His sheer ugliness is nearly an affront in such polished company, not to mention shocking next to the beauty that Sybella possesses. And yet . . .



And yet the ferocity of his exterior matches the scarred ferocity of her soul, and I believe, against all appearances, that they will suit wonderfully. Any doubts I may have had are quickly dispelled by the quiet pride in the man’s feral eyes as he watches and listens to Sybella give her account. I can almost feel the weight of his regard for her reach across the table and wrap itself around her like a protective arm.



I also slip occasional glances at this Duval fellow who has stolen Ismae’s heart. I would never believe they had once fought like cats and dogs in the reverend mother’s office if I had not seen it with my own eyes. Although Duval spends less time gazing at Ismae than Beast does at Sybella, I can still feel the bond between them, like steady, nurturing roots from some invisible tree.



When Sybella has finished her tale, the room falls into a stunned but respectful silence. After a moment, Duval turns to Beast. “Tell us of the battle for Morlaix.”



Something in the way that Beast squares his massive shoulders makes me believe that he would prefer to be back on the battlefield rather than speaking before the council. “The abbess of Saint Mer was most helpful,” he begins, his voice deep and graveled. “As were the people of Morlaix, and the charbonnerie.” The bishop sniffs his disdain at the mention of the charcoal-burners, for they followed the Dark Matrona when the Church cast her out. Father Effram, however, folds his hands and smiles beatifically, as if especially pleased with beloved children.